


Letting It Out

by LostGirl



Series: Second Glances [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, Confessions, Drinking, Drunken Confessions, Embarrassment, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-08
Updated: 2004-09-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 19:50:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6534142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostGirl/pseuds/LostGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley shows up at Giles' after the prom, Cordelia having dumped him for a football player.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letting It Out

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Letting It Out  
>  Author: Lostgirl  
>  Paring: Giles/Wesley  
>  Rating: R (Techinically)  
>  Spoilers: Set late season 3, BTVS./> Summary: Wesley shows up at Giles' after the prom, Cordelia having dumped him for a football player.
> 
> Disclaimer: All things BTVS (and ATS) belong to Joss Whedon and various corporate entities.
> 
> Written for the Fuh-Q-Fest. Challenge #2.
> 
> Big thanks to the lovely [](http://kyrieane.livejournal.com/profile)[**kyrieane**](http://kyrieane.livejournal.com/) for the wonderful beta.

Giles loosened his bow tie, glad to get the blasted thing off. While he firmly believed Buffy and the others deserved a night of celebration--especially after all they'd gone through that night alone--he didn't have the mindset to remain with them.

He was tired, and there was work to do and--oh, who was he kidding? He found the whole affair depressing. There were any number of people he could have asked to dance, but not a one of them appealed. He missed Jenny, though the aching hole she'd left had healed. Well, as much as it was going to. He would always miss her, the same way he'd always miss the Ethan he'd known in his youth. A completely different creature from the one who tormented him nowadays.

Those thoughts only added to the melancholy and Giles found himself staring into a glass of Scotch before he'd actually thought it through. Sighing, he shook his head and removed his jacket. He was about to undo his cuffs when there was a pounding on the door.

"Good lord, what is it _now_?"

Wesley almost fell over the threshold when Giles opened the door. He managed to catch himself with the hand that wasn't clutching at a bottle of Scotch, an _empty_ bottle of Scotch.

"It's all your fault, Rupert!" Wesley shouted, stumbling past him into Giles' living room before swinging around and quite nearly overbalancing himself. "And I will call you Rupert. After all, you call me Wesley, which is completely unprofessional. Why shouldn't I call you Rupert, Rupert?"

"I'd say the expected, 'dear god, man, you're drunk,' but I think we're both aware of that," Giles sighed, still holding the door open, half-hoping Wesley would stumble close enough to be pushed outside. "The question is: why are you drunk in my living room?"

"Because, it's all your fault!" Wesley turned again, pulling out Giles' desk chair and plopping himself down in it. He looked at the bottle of Scotch--Glenfiddich Giles noted with a strange bit of approval--realized it was empty and sighed. His attempt to set it on the desk had the bottle on the floor in moments, but Wes didn't seem to realize this. Instead, he turned to look rather blearily at Giles.

"What is my fault?" Giles asked with a sigh of his own. Wondering why he humored the man instead of tossing him out on his ear. Oh, yes, Wesley was pissed and there were vampires outside, right.

Giles tossed the door shut with a regretful little glance.

"Ms. Chase . . . Cordelia." Wesley grumbled something Giles couldn't understand.

"I'll put on the coffee," he said, shaking his head, setting the empty bottle onto the desk before making his way into the kitchen. Wesley followed, leaning in the doorway.

"She . . . she met a football player," Wesley said, his lips turned in a frown that just begged for . . . things Giles should most certainly not be thinking about. Giles turned back to the coffee maker, mentally chiding himself.

 _The man's a pompous buffoon for the love of whatever's holy_. He told himself as his hands went about making coffee without much input from his brain, a skill learned from more than one night returning home in a condition similar to Wesley's.

"Ah. Which, I suppose, is why you're drinking Scotch."

 _Yes, but he's a pompous buffoon with a lovely mouth,_ answered some other part of his mind. Mostly likely it was a thought dredged from the reptilian brain, which also felt the need to inquire, "Where did you get that this time of night anyway?"

Wes stared at him for a moment, eyebrows furrowing. "Bought it, uh, couple-couple weeks ago . . . after . . . couple weeks ago."

"I see." Giles rolled his eyes, getting two mugs out of the cupboard as the coffee percolated.

"Don't distract me!" Wesley was staring at the mugs though Giles assumed he was the one being addressed.

"From what?"

"From . . ." the young man looked perplexed for a moment, then nodded. "From telling you that it's all your damn fault!" Wesley straightened up then, shaking his head. "God, I'm drunk. My father would have my hide. In strips."

"I'm sure," Giles agreed. "Why is it my fault that Cordelia Chase decided to take up with a football player?"

"Because, uh, of-of course, you're the one who said to go after her. I . . . I wouldn't have . . . if you'd . . . well, if, uh, that is . . ."

"I see." He really hadn't expected it to make sense. Pouring two cups of coffee, Giles turned to the younger man. "Do you think you can manage not to spill this?"

"Of course. I'm not . . . all right, I am drunk, but--" Wes looked down at his hand, realized he was swaying, apparently decided he'd better sit down. He almost missed the stool, but finally managed, carefully taking the mug from Giles. "I . . . I really don't usually . . . I mean, I don't usually drink," he murmured apologetically.

Giles found himself feeling sorry for the man. Yes, Wesley was . . . well, he'd already covered that, but regardless, Giles knew what it was like to have someone turn their eyes to someone else. It always hurt.

"I assumed that was so," Giles assured, taking a seat on the stool next to Wesley. "I'm sorry Cordelia . . . she's rather . . . I'm sure she didn't mean to hurt you."

"Doesn't matter. Can't blame her," Wesley mumbled, taking a sip of the black coffee and grimacing. "He was . . . athletic and . . . confident and . . . I'd have rather been with him too."

"Wesley, if you ever tell anyone I said this I will rip your tongue out and make you eat it, but you're a fine young man and those things . . . they're not everything."

Wesley laughed and it was a strangely sad sound.

"No. You didn't see him. I'd have rather been with him. Cordelia's pretty, but . . . _oh, my_."

Giles nearly spit his coffee out at that, turning slowly to look at the young Watcher. "I'm sorry, what? I'd assumed you'd meant, 'If I were Cordelia, I'd have preferred him too.'"

"No," Wes sighed, staring into his coffee. "If I were Wesley. Or, at least, a Wesley with . . . courage, confidence, a pair of--"

"Yes, I got it."

They were both silent for a time. Giles was rearranging his mental picture of the young man, battling down thoughts of Wesley and some buck from the football team. And wondering, just a little, why the young man had left the other night, a few weeks ago. He'd put it down to sheer stubbornness and some strange certainty that he was 'putting Giles out'.

So why return now? He supposed Wesley just didn't have anyone else to bother. A sad thought. One to which Giles could relate. On the other hand, perhaps Wesley's revelation--was it a revelation?--had forced him to find someone to whom he could talk.

Giles shook his head at that thought. Just what he needed; _another_ person who wanted him to be their bloody father. Why did so many blasted people _see_ him that way? _What else do you expect, Rupert? A pipe and some bloody loafers and you'd look like your own father._

Wesley snorted, drawing Giles' attention.

"It's still your fault. All your fault."

Giles raised an eyebrow at that, but more at the soft, sad tone than the words themselves. "Which is why you came here?"

"I need not suffer in silence while I can still moan, whimper, and complain." Wesley nodded as if this were very sage advice indeed. "One of my nanny's, I don't remember which one, used to say that. I think that's why they fired her. I think I liked that one."

"Ah, so you've come to share the suffering. Your presence makes so much more sense now," Giles had kept his voice dry, implying, he thought, that Wes' presence wasn't so much suffering.

Wesley didn't seem to take it that way. The man pushed away from the counter, standing, though his grip on said counter was likely all that kept him upright.

"I'll just leave," Wesley ground out. Was Giles imagining it, or were those tears in Wesley's eyes? Well, now, he felt like a bastard.

"Oh, no, you won't," he insisted, motioning for Wes to take his seat again. "I'm not about to drive you and you are neither driving nor walking home drunk, at night. You'd be useless in a-"

"I'm not useless!" Wesley shouted, backing away against the wall, knocking his stool to the floor in his haste, breathing hard. His eyes were glazed as if he weren't even seeing the here and now. "I'm not useless," he said again, almost whimpered, in fact.

Worried, Giles stood, approaching the other man cautiously.

"No, Wesley, you're not useless. I only meant that now would not be the best time to come across a vampire."

Wesley was clenching his jaw tight, but at least his eyes were focusing, in as much as they were capable while the man had a bottle of Scotch in him. But, no, Wesley couldn't have finished the whole bottle in one night or he'd have passed out by now. He didn't drink often, he'd said so himself.

"Come on," he said softly, wanting to get Wesley seated on something from which he was less likely to fall. "I'll take your coffee and we'll move this to the living room."

"Why?" Wesley chuckled, or, at least, Giles thought it was supposed to be a laugh. It came out choked and very unhappy. "Why not just let me walk home? Hell, I'll probably give some lucky vampire alcohol poisoning and you'll have one less to worry about."

"Wesley." Giles voice was hard now and got an immediate response from the young man. He stood straighter, but looked at Giles as if he wasn't quite sure whom he was seeing. "Don't even joke."

Wesley opened his mouth to speak, appeared to think better of it and turned, stumbling into the living room and dropping onto the sofa with the air of the defeated. Giles straightened the stool and took both their cups into the living room, choosing to sit on the couch rather than the recliner, just in case he had to catch the cup, or Wesley.

"Here. Drink." Giles removed his glasses, rubbing at his eyes, tired but unwilling to leave Wesley alone like this. Especially after the man's disappearing act last time. If Wesley now decided he was sober enough to drive, or even walk, home, Giles was sure to have another body on his conscience.

Wesley accepted the coffee mechanically, staring into space as he sipped. "It really is your fault," he finally muttered, looking down into his cup.

"Because I told you to 'have at it'?" Giles resisted the urge to chuckle and instead nodded. "All right." Something of his amusement must have shown through in his voice though because Wesley cringed.

"You're not going to argue?" Wesley asked, daring a quick glance at him before going back to staring into his half empty mug.

"Why? If you think it's my fault because I encouraged you then your reasoning is clearly shot."

"You didn't encourage me," Wesley mumbled, kicking his foot a little way under the coffee table for some reason. Giles felt his eyebrows furrow.

"I see. I didn't encourage you, but you still believe it's my fault? Is there any wonder I'm not arguing? I'm not even sure what debate you're trying to have."

Wesley didn't seem to be listening any longer. A small, sad smile was on his lovely lips and he stared at the coffee table. He opened his mouth as if to speak once again, but then shut it just as quickly as before.

Finally, he said, "You don't seem too surprised to, uh, to learn about the, uh," he waved his hand back at the kitchen, as if that explained everything. Seeming to realize it didn't, he sighed and finished, "the football player."

"Well," Giles began, "Cordelia is a nice enough young woman, though her sense of tact is . . . nonexistent, but she doesn't seem to, uh--"

"Not, not that." Wesley stood, hobbling over to the mantel. Giles rose as well, sneaking closer to keep an eye on Wesley. The things that were breakable there were rather rare and he'd rather not see them dropped.

"A-about me," the young man whispered, casting a furtive glance at him.

 _Ah. Lovely_. So, the man _had_ come seeking a father to talk to. _Just bleedin' lovely._

"Well it's not such an odd thing to find oneself attracted to someone of the same sex," Giles commented, wondering whether, in Wesley's head, he was supposed to be comforting or yelling. Having met Wesley's actual father, he was quite certain there would have been yelling in his actual household. That didn't tell him a buggering thing about what Wesley wanted from him.

 _And why do I even give a shit? I should hand the man some sheets, direct him to the couch and get out of this ridiculous_ . . . they were both still in their tuxes. _Fine, fine, offer the man some sweats, which I'll have no hope of getting back because he'll sneak out and never_ . . . Realizing he was rambling to himself, Giles tried to pull his mind back to the present.

"No, no it's not." Now Wesley sounded even more forlorn.

_What does he bloody well expect of me? I'm certainly not going to yell at him for it!_

"So?" Giles asked, giving in. He was tired, and not only physically. He was tired of trying to make Buffy understand her duty, tired of trying to direct Willow away from things she most certainly was not ready for, tired of snapping at Xander and trying to get the boy to understand that some things were serious. He had as many 'children' as he could handle.

Not that he didn't see the irony in Wesley approaching him for this duty. Wasn't this the very thing Wesley had so derided in him? The only good thing, to the point, was that Wesley was not, yet, pulling out his 'more Watcher than thou' act. In fact, he hadn't really done that as of late . . .

"Nothing," Wesley shook his head, his shoulders sagging. "I, uh, just wondered why it was no surprise to you." The man was fiddling with something in his jacket pocket, but if it kept Wesley's hands off his more breakable objects, Giles could squash his curiosity as to what it was.

"If you're asking if you're obvious then I'm not the person to ask. I neither care--"

Wesley flinched, looking away.

"--about _anyone's_ orientation, nor attempt to guess it. I'm sure some would assume, based upon surface traits, but I, frankly, have never found it wise to assume." Speech delivered, Giles returned to the couch. "And you should finish your coffee before it goes stone cold."

Wesley stumbled back to the couch, his eyes never meeting Giles'. Watching him sit and take up his coffee cup, Giles had to sigh, unsure what to do for Wesley, or if he should, in fact, do anything.

Wesley stopped with the cup almost to his lips. "Uh, I . . . have, uh, you ever . . ."

Noting the blush that rose in Wesley's face, Giles believed he knew what was being asked, but he wasn't about to disclose those details without first being sure. "You'll have to be more clear, Wesley."

"Have," there Wesley paused before saying the rest in a rush, "Have you ever been attracted to another man?" He was blushing scarlet to the tips of his ears, but he'd asked. Giles had to give him some credit for that.

"Several," Giles answered, setting down his own cup and cleaning his glasses as he pondered how to handle this. He would be honest, to a point, but there were some things Wesley Wyndam-Pryce would not want to hear.

 _Because the last thing anyone wants is to hear that their chosen father figure would rather shag them into the mattress than_ be _there chosen father figure._ He had to chuckle to himself at that.

"It's not a laughing matter!" Wesley insisted indignantly at his chuckle.

 _Ah, here comes the pompous buffoon._ And why did that thought not bother him so much?

"How do you know? You aren't privy to my thoughts," Giles replied, replacing his glasses.

"No, no . . . I'm not." Again, the dejected shoulder slump.

_What the hell did I say now?_

"Look," Giles offered once the silence began to drag. "Why don't I get you some sweats, which I hope you'll return this time, and you can set up the couch? You know where the linens are?"

Wesley nodded, sighing. Then, his head came up, his clearing eyes meeting Giles' gaze for the first time in a while. It seemed he was sobering up, the coffee doing its job.

"Yes," he laughed, "they're in the closet."

Apparently finding his own joke hilarious, Wesley all but doubled over with laughter, arms crossed over his stomach. Giles knew the moment the laughter turned to sobs; saw the way Wesley's body shook with them, though they were all but silent.

Unsure how to handle this new development, Giles scooted closer, lying a, hopefully, comforting arm along the younger man's back. No sooner had he touched him then Giles found Wesley clinging to him, weeping into his shirt.

Resisting the temptation to look to the heavens and ask, 'all right, which of you did I aggravate and what do I have to sacrifice to make it right,' Giles waited out the storm. Long moments passed, neither of them moving as Giles' shirt was soaked.

Finally, Wesley apparently realized what he was doing and pulled away, blushing and removing his glasses to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. He took a deep breath, raising his eyes to meet Giles' questioning look.

He saw the intention on Wesley's face immediately. Felt the change in the air between them. Suddenly, it was charged with potential, thick with it. Wesley was looking at him with soft, almost longing, eyes and Giles found his breathe quickening with expectancy. Holding himself still, he waited to see what Wesley would do.

Wesley's lips parted, his breathing making his body heave. Giles found his eyes wandering to those lips, his mind close behind. The tip of Wesley's tongue slid out, moistening, almost dragging a groan from Giles. Then the young man was leaning in, slow and sweet, his eyes focused on Giles' lips, nervous hands running down his trousers to wipe away sweat. There weren't even inches between them when Wesley hesitated. Then he swayed in, his soft lips meeting Giles'.

Neither returning nor refusing the kiss, Giles let his eyes slip shut for only a moment, let himself imagine this as more than the experimenting of a confused young man. Wesley pressed his body into Giles, turning his head so that his mouth rubbed enticingly along the older man's. Giles found himself hard pressed not to show Wesley what a real kiss could feel like. His hands itched to slide up Wesley's arms, to smooth over his back and tangle in his hair, but he held himself still.

Wesley pulled away a moment later, breathless, eyes confused.

"I'm . . . oh, god I'm sorry, Mr. Giles, I . . ." It was only then that Giles realized Wesley hadn't been calling him 'Mr. Giles' for a time now. Shaking away the thought, he let his mouth quirk in a small, soothing, smile.

"It's, it's fine Wesley. You're not the first man I've kissed." Something about that seemed to make Wesley angry. He stood, backing away a bit and glaring.

"Oh," he laughed, that same, strangely sad sound from earlier, "I have a fairly good idea of where your mouth has been, thank you!"

Both confused and a bit angered by that odd statement, Giles stood as well. "And just what the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You didn't even miss it, did you?" Wesley shook his head, jaw dropping open for a moment. "I mean, of course, I didn't want you to, didn't think you would . . . . But, I think . . . maybe some strange part of me . . . you didn't even _notice_?"

Giles felt his forehead furrow. He glanced around the room, eyes lighting on the mantel. No, everything in its place. He saw the bottle of Scotch, but knew he'd have missed a bottle of his single malt.

"Again, what the bloody hell are you talking about, man?"

Wesley took something from his jacket pocket, flinging it onto the sofa. Giles looked at it, but couldn't tell just what it was. Neither of them moved for a long moment, then Wesley made a slight whimpering sound and made as if to reach for the thing.

Determined to understand, Giles snatched it up, unfolding it to find . . .

_Oh, dear lord._

It was one of his pictures, much creased now. His first thought was to take each one of those creases out of Wesley's hide, but . . . slowly, some sort of comprehension began to dawn. It was a picture of Giles' face as his mouth slowly sank down Ethan's cock, taking it in inch by inch. Ethan's face wasn't in the picture, but Giles knew where it had come from, remembered well--an oddity, given that half his Ripper days were a blur--the night it was taken.

The box, the one in which he'd kept this particular series of photos, along with his old video tapes and some other mementos of times long past . . . He'd been gong through it the night Wesley had shown up, injured, on his doorstep. Apparently, the younger man had . . .

"You had no right to go through my things," Giles heard the steel in his voice, but strangely did not feel it.

Wesley had kept the photo. Stolen it. An act that had to go against every single moral fiber the young man clung too. Why? Why this one? Out of all the photos, why this one picture? Why keep it at all? Studying the creases, he guessed it had been crumpled and thrown out more than once, but always rescued.

"I know," Wesley muttered. He was crimson again, eyes on the floor, hands clasped before him. Penitent, it would seem. His jaw was quivering and Giles could imagine only too well the tears in Wesley's bright blue eyes. "I'll leave."

Wesley turned, stalking toward the door.

Giles shook himself, pulling his eyes from the picture. "Wesley? Why did you . . ."

The young man stopped, his hand on the doorknob. He didn't turn around, rather turning his head just a little to call over his shoulder. "I . . . I just . . . w-wanted to . . . t-to _look_ at it, to . . . _h-have_ it and . . . I'm sorry."

With that, he was gone, leaving Giles to stare after him.


End file.
